Bacardi wasn’t sure what he expected. As if time would stand still and the thought of Solomon would not return, despite the child who carried his blood that Bacardi watched over. So when the call rang across the Bay, dread settled hard into the pit of the stallion’s stomach. For a split second, he thought about ignoring it all together. As if he hadn’t heard Solomon at all. But that was a coward’s answer, and although he had faced many uncertainties in his life, Bacardi had never been a coward.


With a few snaps of his tail; either from the dread or irritation, Bacardi left the ledge in which he overlooked the herd. Descending onto the lands below from the rocky path he had created, he wove through the trees towards the awaiting stallion, but at a casual pace. He was not a foolish filly charmed by the stallion’s charisma, rushing to his beck and call. When he finally arrived, Bacardi stopped a pace or two away rather than offering his nose.


“Solomon.” Bacardi greeted, his tone neutral as he looked on calmly. The feelings of earlier wiped clean of his face to leave nothing readable. “I assume you are here to see my Skjaldmaer. She is not here.” he said before letting his golden gaze sweep over the Tinuvel King. “You look like shit. I presume whatever reasoning is why you haven’t been around?” Bacardi asked.

five years. mutt. bay tobiano. fourteen three hands. of the bay.

"...speech"